Fake Empire
by CloudyDream
Summary: They would tell her story for years to come, whisper her name across the Seven Kingdoms. They sang of Lyanna Stark from the Wall to Dorne, telling the same story over and over again; but they would never tell it right. From dreamer to queen, the story of the Rose of Winterfell.


Hello there. Wow, it's been a while. I took a long break from fic writing, this fandom especially, and there was nothing better to ease my way back than doing the rewrite I've been meaning to since this summer.

This story is a heavily edited version of my other Lyanna-centric Rebellion story, _Heroes and Ghosts. _If you haven't read it, feel free to skip this and get on with the story; if you have, and are wondering why I decided to rewrite it – well, honestly I've been a bit unsatisfied with _H&G_ since the moment I finished it, and as the time went on I stared to find it a little cringeworthy. Basically, I feel like I hurried too much to finish and rushed through some major plot points, plus I chickened out on making some hard writing choices I had planned out from the beginning, and ended up with a rosier, white-washed version of the story I'd meant to write.

Thus, this story. It'll probably end up being longer than _Heroes and Ghosts, _with a few nearly identical bits and some major changes. It's maybe a little harsher, a little more raw; but it's the story I like best and I hope you'll enjoy it.

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><p><strong>part one: the maid in the castle<strong>

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><p><em>Silvia, do you remember then<br>that time of your life  
>when beauty glistened<br>in your laughing and darting eyes…_

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><p>Lyanna had been barely four years old when her mother had died, young enough that all she couldn't remember anything but vague glimpses. She did it often, growing up, shutting her eyes tightly in the dark of her room before sleep, and see hazy impressions of warm eyes and a woman's voice, low and deep but so soft.<p>

Lyanna remembered light playing on her mother's pale skin and the way she would bring one hand up to tuck her rebellious locks behind one hair. Every night she fell asleep in her memories and woke up feeling a sort of wistfulness; but it never lasted for long in the light of the day. With the mornings came games to be played and brothers to follow around, and a life far too perfect to wallow in memories; and soon enough came the time when Lyanna's nightly thoughts turned to exciting adventures and new dreams, instead of stale regrets of the past and all the things that could have been.

One warm spring afternoon Brandon gave her a wooden sword just like the ones he'd practiced with, heavy and long and filled with lead; and perhaps he'd meant it as a joke, but to Lyanna it was the best gift she'd ever received. As she went to hug her brother she found herself thinking, quite clearly, what would her lady mother have said; if she would have liked to see Lyanna learn to fight like the daughters of Bear Island, or wear silk ribbons in her hair like Lord Dustin's daughters. But her mother was not there and Brandon was instead, and he wrapped his arms around her the way her mother never did; and that was the last time she consciously thought of Lady Lyarra for years.

She never again wondered what it would have been like, to have a mother see to her scrapped knees and kiss her forehead, how much different her life would have been. Lyanna went out and played with swords instead, lived a boy's life and dreamt boy's dreams, and she was quite content with what she had.

And so Lyanna had grown up in Winterfell amidst her horses and her roses, with no other women for company. She was alone at times, but never truly lonely; much loved by her father and brothers and all of his men, and everyone who ever laid eyes on her. It wasn't hard, to be loved in Winterfell, and Lyanna relished in it, in all the attention and the certainty of her own uniqueness. There was only one lady in the House of Stark, young and beautiful and capricious like some goddess of the East, unruly as a winter storm. They all liked to tell her how _wild_ she was; her father with a stern smile and Huin the stable-hand with an exasperated glare and her brother Eddard with genuine worry.

_It's nothing, Ned_, she told him once, if only to see his concern melt into relief. _I'll grow it out of it_, Lyanna promised; and she'd meant it, even. Maester Walys liked to say that it was only the impetuousness of youth that made Lyanna so stubborn, her and Brandon both; their youth and the blood of the First Men running through their veins. Brandon himself always laughed at that, a Southern Maester talking about the First Men like he knew anything about it, and told Lyanna that he was what he was, and would never change.

_And wouldn't it be a dreadful bore to be like everyone else, sister?_

Brandon never grew out of it until the day he died; and, truth be told, neither did Lyanna. She was only a girl still when the war started; and by the time it was over she was a woman and a mother and a survivor, and not so eager to grow up anymore.

But as a child Lyanna had been a lively one, and spoiled beyond belief. Her father had no sisters or close female cousins, and no idea what to do with a daughter; but the Lady Lyanna was the closest way into Lord Rickard's favor, and every man in the North knew that. She had a room full of beautiful gown she wore once and discarded for trousers, and a young filly she had not even bothered to name, preferring one Brandon's mounts instead. She dreamt a lot, perhaps more so than it was healthy; of mountains and valleys and the sea beyond it all, of all the adventures the world had to offer, and she knew one day they would be _hers_.

Lyanna even confessed as much to Brandon once. It was one cold spring morning during one of Ned's rare visits, when her oldest brother had decided it was time to introduce Benjen to the delights of Dornish red, and she had promptly followed him. They had all ended up drunk beyond their wits, shouting and exchanging tales, about Catelyn Tully and Ned's life in the Vale, and somewhere during all this Brandon had begun a game of Confessions. It had been the most fun she'd had in a while, Lyanna decided after, until it had been her turn to talk.

_What do you want from life_, Brandon asked, and how could she explain it? Lyanna wanted, she _craved, _so much; so many things that she didn't quite know which one she preferred. She had the sort of entitlement that came from stubbornness more than blood, and privilege to back it off; and whenever she imagined her future it was always hazy and vague but on-so-bright, and she had been sure it would be wonderful.

It just simply couldn't have been otherwise.

And yet that day, that spring day with the Dornish wine and the drunken laughter; that day was the first time Lyanna Stark had her hopes and dreams clash with the knowledge that her life had been mapped from birth, and there was nothing to be done about it. She would be thirteen in less than a fortnight, after all, a woman grown; and Father had told her already of Lord Manderly and Lord Bolton and Ned's friend Robert Baratheon, handsome Lord Robert with the blue eyes. _He's already halfway in love with you, Lya_, Ned had said, and she'd smiled at him but her mouth had felt sour. _No one ever asked me,_ told the mirror in her room, because she couldn't tell Father, with all the anger a thirteen-year-old girl could muster; the self-righteous wrath of a girl who'd never been denied a thing and finally understood that the world wasn't quite how she'd willed it.

It was a bitter truth. In all the thirteen years of her life, Lyanna Stark had never learnt how to make the best of a situation; she'd never had to. Daughter of the North and a Stark to the bone, Lyanna knew everything about doing her duty to her House; but still, she hadn't quite imagined it like this. She dreamed heroic tales and adventures, not the boredom of her lord husband's castle. Lyanna wanted to lead men instead of an army of servants, and would have gladly bleed on the battlefield; but the dim light of the marriage bed was more than she could take. She would see the South the way her brothers had, on a saddle with steel on her hip, or so she'd always thought.

Until the day Lyanna realized what she wanted did not matter.

No one ever asked Lyanna Stark whether she wanted to marry handsome Lord Robert, because it was expected she would; and she would have fallen in love with dashing Prince Rhaegar in a heartbeat, had things gone differently – but destiny should not depend on the will of Man, or the choices of a mere woman. Westeros bled for Lyanna, locked in her tower, away from everything. And neither Rhaegar nor everyone else ever asked Lyanna if she wanted to be a queen, but that was not for her to decide. Not that she did mind the idea, eventually. Queen Lyanna had a certain ring to it.

The days that followed Lyanna's realization were stiff and endless, painful beyond belief. Her nameday was a tense affair, and felt more like a sentence than a celebration; another nail on the coffin of her childhood. By the time a month had passed, and even her father had noticed that something was wrong, and Lyanna overheard Maester Walys telling Lord Rickard that it was nothing to worry about; a good thing, even, that his rebellious daughter had finally started to exhibit more womanly traits. _Sullenness and tears first_, Walys said, that fat, Southron _idiot_, _and next thing after that, she'll want to be married_.

Lyanna had rolled her eyes at that, so much it'd almost hurt_. Not likely_, she'd thought.

On his next visit home Ned brought Robert Baratheon in tow, and even Lyanna couldn't manage to be as sour as she would have liked. It was impossible to hate Lord Robert, with his deep laugh and blue eyes, and who took all of Lyanna's jabs with the same unfaltering smile. He found her wits entertaining, Ned told her; but Robert himself was more a man of actions than thoughts, and it wasn't beneath her to make fun of that.

On the day Lyanna showed him the gardens, Lord Robert gave her a gracious bow and compared her eyes to the stars, _that would make every man wish for an eternal night_.

"Why, thank you, my Lord," she told him. "It's not something I hear often."

"Men aren't this courteous in the North," Lyanna said; and to Brandon, in a whisper. "I get the eyes from Father, everyone says so." Brandon laughed at that, loud enough that Ned turned to glare at them both; but it was worth it, and Lyanna kept chuckling every time she looked at Robert for the rest of the day.

That night Ned took her aside after supper, to sit her down and tell her how wonderful his friend Robert was, how perfect of a match he would be for her. "You will be good for each other," he said, eyes open and earnest. "He hates sitting around as much as you do, you know; is the only man I know who could keep up with your follies. And he's taken quite a shine to you."

That he had, it was plain to see. Robert's eyes hadn't left Lyanna since the moment they'd been introduced to each other, to Ned's satisfaction and Brandon's quiet anger.

"We'll see how many more women he'll take a shine to when we go South," Lyanna told him then, and Ned exhaled slowly, and Lyanna knew he understood. She'd heard of Robert's shortcomings; from people others than Ned, obviously. Her kind brother might just be the only man in Westeros who would frown at the idea of his best friend bedding women all across the Seven Kingdoms, and would never tell Lyanna. Sweet, kind Ned. It was a thing of men to seek pleasure, and of women to restrain from passion, although Lyanna hadn't quite decided what to think about that. She'd heard some things from the Lady Maege, and some others from Brandon; but on one thing her thoughts were clear.

She would not be one of many, not even the first among them. She was Lyanna Stark, the Winterfell's most cherished daughter, descendent of kings, to be admired and treasured and yes, perhaps adored every once in a while, but she would not let herself be put on a pedestal and left to rot, waiting in a cold bed while her husband went out into the night. Robert looked at her like a pretty carving, some golden statue of an eastern goddess, perfect and lonely and unreal.

Still, Robert was fun and charming in his own way, a clear spot of sunshine in the greyness of early spring. He had a boyish sense of humor, low and loud if not that refined, and no qualms about making sure that his jokes were fit for a lady's ears. Spending time with him was not the chore Lyanna had imagined it would be; Lord Rickard had her show Robert around Winterfell, and they went to the crypts and the Winter Town and outside the walls for long rides.

Brandon scowled when he heard about that, but Lyanna stopped him before he could object. "Do not worry, dear brother," she said. "Robert's would never think to try anything _indecent_ with me, is that right?"

And Robert nodded at that, almost flushing even. "Of course I wouldn't," he said; and it was plain that he meant it even, as if Lyanna were some delicate creature to be protected, and he gave her a look that was pure devotion.

For some reason, that annoyed her. "Oh, but Robert is absolutely gallant," Lyanna continued, talking at Brandon as if Robert weren't even there, hoping it would bother him as much as it did Lyanna whenever that happened to her. "Why, if you must know, I showed him the training grounds two days ago, and when I asked him to please let me hold his hammer, he didn't even crack a joke." She kept her smile firm in place. "If I didn't know better, and from so many people, then I would think Lord Robert wasn't interested in women at all."

And she walked away feeling prouder than she should have; and perhaps a little petty, but not too much.

Robert recovered soon enough, laughing away that uneasy look in his blue eyes, and insisted on helping Lyanna get on the saddle even though they both knew she was a better rider than he was, calling her _milady_ and letting one hand linger a bit around her hip, light and still so thrilling.

Lyanna did not wonder what her mother would have thought of Robert Baratheon.

She didn't even think she really wanted to know.

He kept throwing those _looks_ at her for the rest of his stay, and it felt – odd, something not of this world. Lust, she would have expected. But _this_ she had not; the way Robert looked at her like a religious experience, an exotic treasure beyond belief. It was _too much_; he left her a blushing mess of a little girl, wondering if this was what all the stories were about, and if maybe it was worth it, in the end. Not quite a hero's tale, but it was exciting all the same.

It was two days before they were all to leave for Harrenhall when Ned came to her, once again, to talk about Robert. As much as Lyanna had come to like Robert, she'd started to resent the space he had in Ned's life, the way he would always been in her life every moment of the day, if only by simple mention. And Ned – why couldn't he tell Lyanna about some pretty chamber maid in the Vale he'd taken a fancy to? Some new horse, the Lord Whent's tourney? But instead he told Lyanna about Robert, _again_, how he'd watched them grow closer and now could Lyanna see it, she and Robert were as good of a match as he'd hoped they would be, and Robert already loved her and would treat her well and respect her as much as Ned knew he wanted to.

Lyanna thought it was all very sweet, and went to sleep that night wondering how was it possible to love someone without really knowing them.

"You cannot," Brandon told her, bluntly, when she asked. Her beloved Brandon, Lyanna's favorite brother by far, who made her laugh and taught her to hold a sword and always told her the truth, even when it hurt.

"Robert's crazy with love for the woman he thinks you are," he continued, even though Lyanna had not asked; and she glared at him and almost told him to stop, but it was too late and the damage was done.

_I wish he could love me for myself_, she almost said; but it wasn't what she wanted, not really.

"I wish I could love him, too" she said instead, with all the stubborn conviction of a young girl who's been told that love could solve everything. These last few days she'd come to enjoy Robert's glances and Robert's smile and Robert's mere existence, and started to think that maybe those love ballads weren't all that bad – if only they could come true.

Love, Lyanna learnt later on, could not solve everything, or anything at all; but it was a nice thing to have.

On the last day before their departure, she showed Robert the glass gardens.

"I wager you don't have blue roses in the South," she told him, tasting the way the words felt on her tongue. _You_, she'd said, _South_, and wondered for how much longer she would remain a Stark of the North.

"They are my favorite," she added, and Robert smiled.

"I can see that," he said, and made to pick one. "They're beautiful."

Robert held his rose between thumb and index finger, tightly, mindful of the thorns. Lyanna looked at his hands wondered how they would feel on her body, if they would be as strong and rough and playful as the rest of him.

He put the rose in the pocket of his cloak, still careful, meeting her eyes and smiling at her. "I'll keep this one," Robert said. "Bring it home with me."

_It will wilt and die before we reach the Neck, _Lyanna thought, but Robert fancied himself a poet and they both knew it was not the rose he was talking about; and Lyanna Stark had no intention to die.


End file.
